turboprops can only turn so fast, as our Communist friends found out with their Tu-95 Bear. But at the same time, pure jet engines were equally unacceptable; they were thirsty things in the mid-1940’s, not very powerful and, as Greasy Hands might put it, “tarnation and hell” to work on.”
“Damn straight,” said Greasy Hands.
Breanna thought he might be speaking from experience.
“It was just about that time when the wizards at Pratt & Whitney came up with the J57 jet engine. It was a V-8 for airplanes, capable of delivering 7,5000 pounds of thrust without popping a gasket. An Air Force officer looked at the Boeing turboprop proposal one cold Thursday in October 1948 and declared it obsolete. Then he showed the team the specs for the P&Ws and sent them away. They called the next morning from their hotel and promised he’d have a design on his desk Monday. The engineers worked like demons, even building a balsa- wood model. When Monday rolled around, they had invented history’s longest flying bomber, arguably the most versatile and successful military aircraft ever conceived. Through 774 iterations, encompassing eight major families and an almost unfathomable number of alterations and updates, the B-52 has served for nearly fifty years as America’s primary manned strategic bomber.”
“Jeez, it is older than Dr. Ray,” said the staff sergeant sitting with Parsons below.
“Hardy, har, har,” answered Rubeo.
His response got a better laugh than the original line.
Breanna checked her flight position on the global positioning system – accurate to within half a centimeter – then did a quick scan of the vital information on the flight monitor on the right side of her dash before continuing with her historical narrative.
“Now where was I?” she said. “Oh, yes. I should probably note that our new power plants are derived from the engines used by the Boeing 767. They feature considerably more thrust, so much so that Fort Two is currently fitted with out at each engine root instead of the original pair. If my math is correct, that’s four instead of eight. Even so, Fort Two has broken the sound barrier in level flight at 55,000 feet.”
That was an incredibly impressive statistic, since it was impossible for even a ‘clean’ B-52 with minimal load and stock power plants.
“We are, as you may know, testing several engine configurations for the Megafortress,” she continued. “Fort Two is currently the only one with the Xs. And one of our planes – Raven, which we’ve used for ECM tests and Flighthawk drops – still has the original P&Ws. Needless to say, these power plants are better, increasing the plane’s already prodigious range to slightly over ten thousand miles – though most of that’s downhill.
No one laughed. Tough crowd.
“The B-52 was at least theoretically obsolete by the 1960’s,” said Breanna. “The sheer size of the plane, once dictated by the thirst of the engines, had become as much a liability as an asset. On the other hand, its large size meant we could keep piling equipment on, increasing its life as well as capability. The add-ons and alterations made a not particularly pretty plane one ugly MP, as the saying goes. But the BUFF was – is, I should say – one versatile airframe. You can’t hot-stick her – or at least, we’re not supposed to hot-stick her. But let me tell you something: If you’re beneath the bomb bay when it open-s well, fresh underwear is the least of your problems.”
“Hear, hear,” snarled Rubeo.
“She takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’,” said Chris. Obviously annoyed by the scientist’s disdain. “I have a picture somewhere of a B-52H model landing without her stabilizer. Try that in a Bone.”
“Bone” – from B-One – was the nickname for the B-1B, also known as the Excalibur and Lancer. Ferris had served with a B-1 squadron before coming to Dreamland.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Chris added. “I love the B-1B. There’s no better low-level penetrator in the world. Mach 9 at five hundred feet wakes you up, let me tell you.”
“Humph,” said Rubeo.
“Much of the technology we’re testing,” continued Breanna sharply, “represents the next wave of development beyond the B-1B and the B-2. Our resin wings, for example, are lighter than those of the B-2. The avionics and control suite that we are currently working on, when perfected, may be used in upgrades to the B-2 or perhaps whatever its successor will be.”
“We know all that,” hissed Rubeo.
Annoyed by the scientist, Breanna punched the plane into a roll.
“And as you can see, the physical improvement to the control surfaces, as well as the reinforcements to the skeleton, make Fort Two as maneuverable as a late-teen fighter.”
“Whoa!” yelled McCormick as Breanna put the plane back on its keel. “Better than a roller coaster.”
“Now I’m not saying a B-52 couldn’t have done that,” Breanna told the passengers as they settled down. “But there’s really no comparison between the two airplanes’ flight profiles. I could demonstrate spin recovery, for example,” she added pointedly, glancing over at her erstwhile copilot.
Rubeo had his hands wrapped around his neck, obviously trying to choke the bile back down.
“But maybe I’ll wait for another time,” Breanna said.
The words were barely out of her mouth when the plane fell out from under her in an uncontrolled, full-power dive.
Dog opened the side door into his office and stepped back fifteen years. Instead of lunch, Patrick McLanahan was sitting on the edge of his desk, wearing civilian clothes and a smile nearly as wide as his shoulders.
“Dog, how the hell are you?” said McLanahan with a laugh. “You’re damn lucky you’re not sitting in a pilot’s seat right now, or your fanny would be waxed solid.”
“I’d just hand the controls over to you and expect to have my butt saved,” replied Dog with a laugh, grabbing his long-ago radar operator in a bear hug. “How the hell are you, Patrick?”
“Still kicking,” said McLanahan. “Despite the rumors to the contrary.”
“I’ll bet,” said Dog. McLanahan had been the senior Air Force officer on the DreamStar project, and one of the heads that had rolled after the debacle.
Supposedly. He was looking awful cheerful for someone who’d recently been forced into retirement. And downright natty, with a leather jacket, sharp chinos, and expensive-looking cowboy boots.
Not to mention the fact that his shirt was tucked in.
Obviously something was up. McLanahan may have been the best bombardier in the Air Force, but he had also arguably been the worst dressed, a walking catalog of Reg. 35-10 dress and appearance violations.
“Civilian life agrees with you, I guess,” said Bastian.
“In a way.”
“You want some lunch?” Dog asked.
“Sounds good,” said McLanahan.
“You here on business?”
“In a way.”
Dog stuck his head out the door. “I’m going over to find some lunch,” he told Ax.
“They’re waiting for you in the base commander’s lounge at the end of Level B. I’ve arranged your afternoon. You’re free until 1400.”
“Thanks.”
“I expect it will show up in the next fitness review,” said the sergeant.
“I thought you told me there was a new directive requiring self-evaluation only,” retorted the colonel. “How do we get to Level B?”
“I know the way,” McLanahan told him.
Bastian matched his pace as they headed down a long corridor to a set of steel doors. Inside they descended two levels and emerged in a hallway lined with framed photographs of old Air Force fighters. A thick carpet lay on the floor. A wooden door at the end of the hall gave way to a small, well-appointed room with hunter-green walls and heavy drapes. A sergeant and an airman stood at the side of a row of four tables, each outfitted with fresh linens. The place looks like an exclusive D.C. restaurant.
“I’m going to fix this,” Dog said as they sat down.
“How’s that?” asked McLanahan.
Before Bastian could say anything else, the airman swept in and filled their water glasses. The sergeant slipped a stiff piece of cardboard in front of Dog and stepped back.
It was a wine list.
